


Our Father, Who Art In Heaven, Hallowed Be Thy Name

by Linty_binchi2



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, First Kiss, First Meetings, Implied Sexual Content, John x Happiness, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Violence, PDA, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt, dont do it, he doesnt actually smoke, its THERE, john got into a fight, just a little bit of death you know, just a little one, just lots of that in general, mention of smoking, not a major one, ok its not explicit, smokings bad, this deals with DEPRESSION read with care, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13083399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linty_binchi2/pseuds/Linty_binchi2
Summary: John Laurens is conflicted over an upbringing and religion he's always trusted and a boy he loves. Here is some of that inner turmoil he feels and the nagging voice in the back of his head screaming for him to repent and beg forgiveness at the gates of Heaven before it's too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'But Leo, you have a multi-chapter fic you haven't updated in literal months!!!1!!1! What're you doing writing this?????'  
> There is no answer, BUT I am working on it okay I have some things done my lovely beta and friend look over when I get around to writing. Alas, when inspiration calls I gotta procrastinate and start something new ;0
> 
> EDIT: Yes, I went back and I edited this whole mess instead of writing chapter 11 for my other thing. I have literally no other excuse than "I am an emotional mess" and this oneshot is easier to write than my multi chapter mESS  
> If you had previously read this, Blease come back and read it again, it's better this time I swear *sweats*

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_

The first time you met him was in the nurse's office at your old school. You had gotten into a fight with someone; you can't really remember who or why you fought him but it happened and in the aftermath, you found yourself sitting on a cot in the nurse's office with an ice-pack over your bruised eye, wishing for a Band-Aid for a bruised ego, and bandages stuck to your knuckles to "stop the blood." The cuts there had stopped bleeding and it  _felt_ like the issue could be you may have broken your knuckles but  _God forbid you bleed._

It was empty in the nurse's office with not a soul in sight aside from you. Noticing it was empty and it seemed like it would stay that way for a bit, must be a slow day, you get up decide to call your dad and so you wander out into the main office -- which was connected to the nurse's conveniently -- only to find It was empty, just as the nurse's office is; the lady at the front, Miss Jessica you think, was most likely at some meeting or printing something super long. Maybe she was flirting with one of the guidance counselors again, cornering the poor man in the break room and smiling too wide.

The absence of literally anyone and everyone in the office gave you the chance; You'll just use the phone yourself to call your dad, not like you haven't done it before. Besides, no one would be here to say anything and if someone decides to show, you have a good enough excuse. 

As you walked to the front desk where the phone lay, your only goal for now, someone calls out your name from behind you. Just your luck. It seems you are wrong about no one else being here.

"Hey, you're the kid who fought one of Conway's guys, right? Laurens?" It was him. You were young and so was he and neither of you knew it yet, but you would never forget that day, that moment.

"Yeah, and you're Hamilton, hmm? Debate team guy, won like six different contests."

The first time you ever met him and it was with bloody hands, a hurt ego, and a swollen face, your new jeans ripped at the knees and a hole in your nice uniform. There were chunks of dirt smudging your fancy school shoes and your body ached with forming bruises; this was how you greeted him and this would be his first impression of you.

He looked at your current state however and just grinned, laughed even a little at the way you addressed him --  _debate team guy?_ \-- but nonetheless didn't stop there and just grinned at him. To your surprise, he grinned back, a toothy smile you'd never forget, and he held his hand out.  _Who does that anymore?_

You shook his hand nonetheless, relieved he didn't mind the dry blood and bandages, pleasantly surprised to find his hands were soft and smooth. 

"Debate team guy? Huh, that one is new, I gotta say. Don't think I have  _ever_ been identified as such, student council kid or teacher's pet or even just that asshole but I don't think I've ever gotten debate team guy. Unsure though, if that is meant to be a compliment or insult." 

"I don't see why not; not calling you such is kinda just a wasted opportunity it seems. But dude, oh my God, yeah, that is totally a compliment. Not everyone wins every debate event he goes to. Wear your dork side with pride."

From there, conversation flowed between the two of you, talking and talking until everything faded away and you didn't stress over calling your dad and explaining why you need a new uniform, you listened to his jokes and stories and he smiled at you and paid such apt attention to you when you talked it shook you to your core. You talked more, words and smiles exchanged as though you were merchants on the Silk Road, you talked until the bell rang, loud and shrill, and he had to go; something about having gotten out of class only to see the counselor but he spent all his time here instead. You didn't catch it all, reeling from the banter previously traded between the two of you.

Eventually, the staff started to trickle back in, sharing gossip behind hands and taking calls with that forced politeness you know they would never have in any _real_ conversation. You got to phone your dad after some time and go home even later. You were scolded and your mom insisted on trying to save your pants when you got home,  _"Mom, they're gone, we can just buy new ones-" "Jack go play somewhere, I can and will get this stain out; you know your mother is no coward."_ You just stood in your room, trying to read but thoughts and memories of him kept distracting you. When you went back the next day for your first day of in-school suspension, you didn't see him and you were more disappointed than you'd like to admit.

_I have sinned and given into temptation Holy Father, I am weak_

After Sunday mass your father would take you and all of your siblings to brunch at someone's house; what house brunch was held at changed every week and you never knew who your father knew to get all of you there and why so many people did this in the first place. Yet no matter where you went, though, you never knew anyone but your siblings and you always hated going, wanting nothing more than to lay down in your mother's garden and pretend you're an explorer or pirate or someone who wouldn't have to go to brunch on Sundays after mass at random homes where you knew no one but your own family. Brunch was over-rated anyways, and, despite no experience outside of yours, probably just a dumb thing snooty rich people do. Unfortunately, that meant you.

Bringing yourself back to the moment, _to brunch_ , your job was to watch over your siblings and mingle with kids your age, to go when your father called you and let him show off his oldest son because you're the trophy child, _look,_ he knows three languages already and he's only 13,  _look,_ he's the best player on the soccer team and is thinking of doing track next year because he is so ambitious, _look,_ he's at the top of his biology class, _look at him_ and all his glory and intelligence, feast your eyes upon the boy who feels more like an object than a person. Hands squeeze your cheeks too hard, pull you in for hugs that last too long and smiles are thrown at you as though they're arrows being shot from a bow from an all too enthusiastic archer. They all felt fake and overwhelming so you would try and escape, escape to your brothers and sisters or to the garden the house had -- because every rich person has a garden to maintain their Image-- anywhere but there.

Once you got older you'd sneak away from the house entirely, no longer being put at the mercy of ruthless cheek-pinchers and fake smiles, bidding your siblings adieu and running off. Track ended up paying off, it seemed. On one particular day, you found yourself wandering towards the church, deserted and silent after mass, the occasional person popping up only to disappear seconds later. The quiet was nice and the emptiness comforting compared to the overbearing brunch bunch, and so you sat admiring the sky in the early morning behind the church, basking in the sun's rays and the sweet and warm escape. 

You assumed you had been alone, assumed no one else was there and for a second time you'd be wrong.

You found him sitting amongst the flowers in the back of the church amongst the overgrowth, fiddling with a cigarette in his hands, an odd look on his face. He had on a dress shirt and jeans with black shoes and messy red hair tied back. There were rogue curls falling free and impairing his vision and make him bruh them away or blow on them until he got bored and gave up. It was...cute? You coughed to get his attention, saving that thought for a later time, and he turned, alarmed at first until he saw you and smiled.

"Hi. It's been awhile, huh, Laurens?"

You sit down next to him, not caring if you mess up your pants and jacket. He scoots over but your knees still knock against each other.

"Hamilton. It's been a few years, yeah. But I guess 'been a while' also describes it, sure, whatever floats your boat."

He let out a dry laugh and you can't help but crack a smile at that; you remember that laugh, you _missed_ that laugh. There was just something about his laugh that made it so you just _had_ to smile at that. The moment passed though and silence falls over the both of you, and he goes back to fiddling with the cigarette, not smoking it or putting it in his mouth to hang out of the corner, just passes it between his fingers, looking at the thing like it's some alien artifact and he doesn't know how to feel about it or what to do with it.

So, naturally, you ask him about it. You ask why he has it and hasn't lit it or used it, normally when one has a cigarette it's with the implication it will be used yet that implication seems to not be present. He tells you he doesn't smoke, his response rushed and defensive almost, he just happened to find one and picked it up and sat down here, not even sure where 'here' really _is_ , and then in walked Laurens after years of not seeing him. He doesn't  _smoke_ , he's got a "dumb, baby immune system" and won't risk it for some dumb nicotine. You decide to only focus on what you _can_ tell him, what could pass as a decent response, and tell him he's behind St. Margaret's church in Charleston, South Carolina. It's probably around ten and mass ended not that long ago, your family had gone this morning. He nods. Of course, your family did, he says.

You're not sure what he means by that or what he could mean by that but you don't say anything, you don't push it.

_Forgive me for my sins and grant me time to repent, give unto_

 

* * *

 

After you saw him behind the church that day, the two of you would meet each other more often rather than wait years for some serendipitous chance; the both of you sneak out and climb trees and hang from branches and joke and laugh and talk. You push each other around and roll down small hills and adventure together, talking and joking all throughout it.

The two of you had been running off together to joke and talk for some time, you were determined to see him more often and usually you would end up seeing him after mass and you would run off during brunch and find him waiting with open arms and a smile, big and happy and _genuine_. He never showed up at your church after that first time, you would find him hanging around a bus stop, reclined on the bench all lanky legs and messy hair.

You asked him one day, now comfortable and familiar enough around him to not feel dumb and stupid for asking him how come you stopped meeting behind the church, why was that more of a one time thing rather than a legitimate meeting spot. And he smiled at you, with his beautiful lips and shining teeth, and told you in that snarky tone,  _'is this not a legitimate meeting spot'_ and you rolled your eyes at him. He had laughed, pleased with the reaction he pulled from you and, in a ore sincere tone, old you he came from the synagogue down the road and just up and left that first meeting and kind of forgot how to get back to the church, so he settled for these bus stops.

You hadn't known he was Jewish, he doesn't wear the hat, the kippah or yarmulke.

He says he isn't Jewish and he doesn't wear either, and also you aren't wrong in not knowing he was Jewish; he isn't.

If he isn't Jewish then why go to a synagogue, if not Jewish then what is he, an enigma?

No, no, he says, he's just Alexander.

But you can't fathom his answer, oddly enough it frustrates you and upsets you; it just doesn't sound right, _just Alexander._ He laughed when you said this with a red face and copious hand waving and you wanted to sprout wings and take flight and avoid the embarrassment. Your face grew redder and hotter and his laugh filled your ears and your embarrassment left with the silence, replaced with endearment and a weird feeling of happiness. You don't think you never want to experience anything else; for what could be greater than his happiness, than the feeling his laugh gives you?

_Dear Lord, I fear I have done the worst, forgive me, Heavenly Father, I this of thee_

He takes your hands in his, the two of you sitting underneath a big oak tree on a Friday evening in the summer, and you're melting in his hands (also, maybe, the humid and oppressive South Carolina heat), warm thin fingers embracing somewhat thicker and softer ones.

His lips are moving and he's tripping over his words and blushing, rushing his words and stuttering as he tells you something -- is it important you wonder -- but you had stopped listening when he grabbed your hands two minutes ago and told you  _he thinks he loves you_.

Leading up to now, to this  _moment_ , he's been moving closer and closer to you in small increments, hugging you longer than normal and brushing his hands against yours while you walked or inching his fingers closer when sitting next to you. All this time, he'd been growing more and more affectionate and you hadn't thought it meant- well,  _this_. 

He had gotten you dinner, now you see that was actually most likely a date, and yet you were clueless-

He's saved up weeks of his allowance to take you out to this cute uptown and fancy restaurant a friend of his talked about. The food came in too-small portions and was too dry and you two made jokes and laughed at the terrible service after he got flustered and tried apologizing for the food but you brushed him off and told him it was okay and his leg was always touching yours, knees brushing and ankles crossed, foot tapping away and when you untangled your legs his foot migrated to rest between your ankles.

-Leading up to now, the signs have always been there, like some cheesy middle school romance filled with blushing and stealing glances of the other and the thought of that- No, the confirmation of this _romance_ _and these feelings_ , and the words he forms as he finds the proper way to tell you, makes your heart soar.

You're flying and have forgotten the world around you and it's just Him and you and you and Him and Alexander and John.

You don't remember leaning in, don't remember taking your hands away from where the both of you had them curled up together on the oak so you could caress his face and pull him closer and push your lips against his, _finally_. You don't remember moving at all until your lips are on his and even then all you can recall is the feeling and the shock.

Shock.  _Shock_.

Shock, shock at your actions, shock at how you made a move on your  _best friend, dammit_ , shock at how nice it feels to finally kiss him and hold his face close to yours, shock at the simple fact that you are _kissing him_ , shock at his lips moving and his arms sliding to rest on your waist and pulling you closer and closer to him and  _oh God you've never felt so good._

His hands are hot on your hips and his breath warm on your lips. He is a fire and you are walking deeper and deeper into the flames and letting him engulf you, surround you in flames, let him swallow you whole until you are nothing but ash.

And it's never felt better. _You've_ never felt better, _God_ , this is the best moment of your life.

_I come to you, Holy Father, Blessed Lord up in heaven, and I beg of thee, plead for you to cleanse me of my sins_

Your mother has been dead for two years now and your father never stops reminding you just how disappointed she would be with you of she were still alive. You don't like listening to that, you don't like it when he tells you that. You don't like to think about it yet in spite of everything he berates you for, you hope deep down that she smiles down on you up in heaven. Despite his words, you hope your mother isn't disappointed in you, hope she's happy and proud of you for trying to find that same happiness you've always struggled to hold onto.

Eventually you father gives up and just moves all his cruel words and glares towards your younger brother Harry, tossing you the leftovers of his disappointment when he had a spare minute in his busy schedule. You can recall one particular night, the both of you had gotten into a screaming match over your brother, how his grades are improving and he's so smart if your father would just give the damn kid a chance, if he would just sit down and stop criticizing everything he has ever done but NO!

You leave that night, run off to stay with Alexander at his house with the Stevens. He opens the door, a blanket wrapped around his thing shoulders, and his face turns to one of concern at your tears; you had cried in frustration and anger on your way over and they still came, blurring your vision but you saw him clearly enough to feel safe. He pulled you under his blankets --  _Star Wars, are you serious, Alexander_ \-- and walked you to his room in the basement. You used to think it cruel his room was there but there were no others and the Stevens helped him redecorate to make it  _homey_. 

He sits you on his bed and turns on a lamp to keep the room lit but not too bright, moves the blanket you had taken from him completely and laid down with you. He pressed kisses to your cheeks and face, whispering sweet words and comforts, his voice chasing all the bad things away, his kisses banishing thoughts of your fight with your father and how tense things have been at home lately; he wraps his arms around you and brushes your hair out of your face, tells you it'll be alright in the morning and he'll stay here by your side all night.

You don't cry again, no. You didn't cry again that night until Alexander spoke softly prose he had written professing his love for you as he traces shapes on your back with his fingers. You didn't cry again that night until he pressed kisses low on your neck, offering up a seemingly never-ending stream of affection and endearing names he's saved just for you. You don't cry again that night until he opens his heart fully to you and you find you've been waiting all this time for this-this moment of pure and raw love and devotion. You didn't shed another tear until he opened himself up to you completely and you couldn't hold back your tears any longer, this time though, they weren't shed in frustration but rather with joy and a happiness you never knew could be felt. 

All of the bad events that had transpired that day melt away with each kiss and you're floating again, flying higher and higher and higher, drunk off this feeling. His kisses bring you to crash through clouds and bounce through the stars, walking through the heavens itself.

_Hail Mary mother of Jesus pray for me, pray for repentance and forgiveness_

His hands sneak lower and lower and it's not much longer until your shirts lie discarded and ignored on his carpet. His lips and hands feel hot on your body, all of him feels  _hot_ and he's a fire consuming you and yet, his hands are soft and everything he does, he does so with care. A slow and sweet fire, burning hot and yet comforting, you're begging him to not stop.

You sound downright sinful in his arms with the way his fingers move and his lips traverse down your throat, leaving marks all over your neck and chest. It's filthy and immoral and unsavory and oh _God,_ the way he kisses you takes you somewhere else entirely, an other worldly pleasure in every way.

_Jesus Christ, Redeemer, and Savior, forgive me_

Your pants are being thrown over the bed to join his and the soft thud they make when they reach the floor is the last thing on your mind as he drags his lips lower and lower, his tongue creating a paradox on your skin being angelic and yet sinful in it's teasing. He's playing with the edge of your boxers and smiling up at you, not breaking eye contact as he pulls them off slowly and then his lips are back on yours and suddenly his hands need to move faster of you won't last. Sweet nothings are mixed with words too filthy to repeat, leaving his mouth and clouding your head as it all unfolds and _this_.

This must be what heaven feels like, this is heaven in his arms.

_Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love;_

_According to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions._

_Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin_

_In your name, I pray to thee, Amen._


	2. not an actual chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not an actual chapter I am so sorry

Hey, this is just a "chapter update" for the story because hey! I re-edited the whole thing, this isn't some multi-chapter thing, just the one chapter, but I'm putting this up here so people can see it and go "Oh! Update/This was edited!" and they read it and this isn't garbage that they just remember as garbage and rather more like a really pretty high tec recycling bin that glows in the dark but still kinda stinks inside

ignore the notes at the end, I'm not sure why they show up again here :/

**Author's Note:**

> This is all based off thoughts I have, gotta love those strict things fellow catholics teach you growing up amiright? Such delicious religious guilt, my favorite snacc, I'd say forbidden snacc but I'm not gonna pull an Eve.   
> Yeah, this way of thinking is very unhealthy though, don't do this, it's very bad and God loves you no matter who you fall in love with and you won't be banned from Heaven, it isn't sinful or something we must repent for. It took me a while to figure this out but it's true. Love thy neighbor, right? Well, that goes for yourself too. Love yo self Bro.   
> But yeah, hope you had fun reading my self indulgent religious guilt fic. The thoughts and (most) of the feelings expressed in here are pretty bad ones to feel and think and please don't feel that way. If you are religious, you relationship with God shouldn't be one you feel constant shame in unless like, you straight up killed someone like a little kid in which case fuck you don't kill little ones. 
> 
> EDIT LMAO IT IS ME AGAIN: I went back to look at this and Jesus H Christ, I am so sorry. I wanted to just delete but Leslie would eat my ass so it stays but with major fixes. Hopefully it reads smoother and sounds better and my mistakes in grammar and words and stuff are ~corrected~ Lord have mercy on meeee


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